In our previous episode...
My husband and I were invited to play music at my co-worker's Christmas party. My ever-lovin' hubby heard the pros play, and chickened out. Yeah, that's right, the man chickened out - hid behind a potted plant and let me publicly make a fool of myself trying to play by ear with someone I'd never practiced with.
Here's how I saw it then:
Normal people lie. If he didn't feel comfortable performing in front of amazing musicians, he could have said, "I have a headache. Sorry. Let's go home."
Honest people tell the truth. He could come out of his hidey-hole and whispered, "I didn't practice enough. I don't feel comfortable doing this."
Courageous people enter the fray and do their best. Honorable people keep their promises.
Cowards and oathbreakers hide behind potted plants.
This is what I said:
"I am never going anywhere with you again!"
This is what I did:
After I calmed down and thought about it a bit, I decided it would be too embarrassing not to go to church with my husband. Just because I didn't want to speak to him ever again didn't mean that the whole world needed to know about it. Similarly, I didn't want to cause speculation among the extended family by not doing the holiday thing. But I would not let him go anywhere with me where he might be seen by my real friends.
Several years (yes, several years) later:
I quit my job at Allied-Signal, and applied to graduate school. As far as my writerly friends were concerned, my DH was the Invisible Man, who appeared in my poetry as a dark Romantic villain.
Two fiction writers from the Creative Writing Program became my special friends. After a year or two, I let my guard down, and let Nancy and Deborah come to my house. After meeting my husband, they thought he was okay. "He seems nice enough. Why can't he go to the movie with us?"
They were so insistent that I allowed myself to be persuaded. "He can come with us, just this once."
To my surprise, it was a delightful outing. Although I hadn't expected my DH to like Branagh's Much Ado About Nothing, Shakespeare was within his comprehension. At lunch afterwards, he was a pleasant and even witty conversationalist. Who knew? My friends not only enjoyed being with us as a couple; they brought out the best in my often morose husband.
Maybe it was okay to sometimes be seen in public with him after all.
Ten years later:
That afternoon opened a tiny chink in my armor. By the time I joined the Society for Creative Anachronism around 2002, I relaxed enough to allow my husband to come to a camping event with me. It wasn't exactly smooth sailing, because I'd been trying to persuade him to camp with me for years. He steadfastly resisted anything that involved a camp stove, mosquitoes or sleeping on the ground. Even a high-end cot and a foam pad wasn't good enough for him.
Not only that, but setting up camp is awful for us. We suck at teamwork, and neither of us will ever admit the other is right. So loading the truck is stressful; getting anywhere before dark is tough; and unrolling the tent is the opening round of a loud and humiliating public argument - proof that two people can behave like children no matter how who is listening.
At one of our first events, the row was over, the tent was up, the camp kitchen was in place, and I could finally put on garb and escape. I flounced off, leaving my disgruntled husband to sulk in our encampment. On the way to Merchant's Row, a long-time SCAdian comforted me with the remark: "Don't worry about it. We'll socialize him. In a few years, he'll be all right."
To my astonishment, that's exactly what happened. My reclusive husband got to know some people; we began to have mutual friends and do things together. We discovered we both liked archery. We even tried making music together again, in public.
Over the course of a decade, "trust, love and include" gradually returned to our marriage. It wasn't an easy process, and we didn't rebuild that broken trust by ourselves. But thanks to the kindness and patience of friends, the rift between us gradually healed.
Looking back, I think that today, we would handle that awful Christmas party with better communication, better judgment, and more maturity. We know and respect each other's limits.
Best of all, I'm finally learning how to be a better grown-up. I (eventually) forgive and ask forgiveness instead of holding eternal grudges. With more experience as a performer, I intuitively know what I can and can't do musically. If things don't turn out, I (reluctantly) accept responsibility for my decisions instead of blaming anybody and everybody else.
Trust, love and include?
Sure, but within reasonable limits. Remember, you have to accept some risk to have an adventure. but only an idiot says yes to everything!
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